


On the Island of Misfit Toys

by htebazytook



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, they are really not right in the head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-27
Updated: 2010-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:05:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Luke gets Sylar drunk.  Shenanigans ensue.</p>
    </blockquote>





	On the Island of Misfit Toys

**Author's Note:**

> Luke gets Sylar drunk. Shenanigans ensue.

**Title:** On the Island of Misfit Toys  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** Sylar/Luke  
 **Warnings:** underage sex and drug use  
 **Author's Notes:** Luke gets Sylar drunk. Shenanigans ensue.

 

 

"So, I was thinking about it, and you're right, Luke—we should absolutely purchase a Nintendo DS with our remaining funds."

"I know!" Luke says, loud. Sylar blinks dramatically at the volume but Luke doesn't give a shit. "The road's so fucking _boring_ , man . . . I mean, I mean. Maybe if you let _me_ drive once in awhile . . . "

"You don't even have your permit."

"So what? Correct me if I'm wong but we're _technically_ not allowed to murder people either. And I'm underage." Luke gestures with his latest beer bottle.

Sylar looks at him for a minute, vague amusement, then snorts and looks away. "I don't understand the appeal of alcohol."

"Whaaat? Isn't is obelisk? Obvious?"

Sylar raises his eyebrows. "Uh huh. See, you use it to get a high—"

Luke mumbles, "Pretty sure alcohol's a depressant . . ."

"—and _I_ don't need it for that. So."

"You get your kicks elsewhere," Luke says, thinks he can catch Sylar looking reluctantly impressed out of the corner of his eye, but then again he also keeps thinking he sees two of him when he sits up too quickly.

Sylar's usually calm and collected and chill, but he looks weirdly out of place in the shabby roadside bar. Looks awkward, like a dateless kid at those retarded "dances" they'd had in middle school, way too still and black-clad for a normal person. And there's just hicks and bored old drunkards lingering in the corners in a way that makes the bar belong to them alone and turns Sylar into the sleek city outcast. Kinda hot.

Luke punches him lightly on the arm to get his attention and Sylar turns, quick and bird-like. Luke laughs. "Dude, you need to relax. Here, have one on me." And Luke slides a twenty across the badly varnished bar to him.

Sylar frowns. "Where did you—?"

Luke rolls his eyes. "Language guy's wallet? Hell _o_ -o? Hey, so, does his power just make it so you can understand languages or is it more of a universal translator kinda thing?"

"What the fuck's a universal translator?"

"Oh, God, this is sad . . ."

Sylar snatches the cash, forces the bartender's attention and orders something. "There weren't a lot of leftovers after you were done with him," he points out.

"Oh my God I'm not a complete idiot, Sylar—I emptied his pockets before _that_."

"What do you want, a gold star?"

"Hell yeah, bitch!"

Sylar rolls his eyes, gets his beer from the guy and studies it like it's something bubbling in a beaker.

"You're supposed to drink it, genius."

Sylar ignores him—Luke gets caught up in the slant of his eyelashes when he looks down, when he turns darkly inside and stops paying attention to the outside world. He seems to reach some kind of conclusion, sips suspiciously at the alcohol before knocking back the rest like it's water . . . and coughs a lot, which is also weirdly ungainly for him. It goes on for so long that Luke has to pat him on the back. Sylar shrugs him off, annoyed.

"Dude, not so fast," Luke laughs.

"Fuck off."

Of course Sylar doesn't listen, because that's just not something he does. And soon they're several beers into the conversation and Sylar's pale neck is flushed up the side, unaligned with his tendons in a captivatingly abstract way . . . Sylar kicks him when he notices Luke zoning out, but he also nearly topples with the motion, catches himself using Luke's arm and Luke catches Sylar laughing.

"I . . . I don't know why this is taking such an effect," Sylar says, frowning. He hates it when he can't figure things out.

"Empty stomach'll do it," Luke says wisely, because as appetizing as the beef jerky and Swedish Fish he'd lifted from the last Shell station had sounded at the time, they didn't really have much lasting power. Luke was used to being malnourished by now, though, loosing weight and everything, so why not load up on calories via happy fun drinks? "And speaking of which, I'm _starving_ . . . hey, can we go to a 24-hour diner after this?"

Sylar _ahh_ 's and his beer bottle meets the table with a satisfying thunk. "I'm not your mother. Learn to cook."

" _You_ can't cook!"

"Yeah, but _you_ have no excuse."

"What? Why?"

" _You are a mi-cro-wave_."

"Whatever. Another round?"

"No, come on, Luke, I'm—"

So Luke shushes him and they graduate to hard liquor, Sylar making sure the bartender's still convinced Luke's legal. The alcohol loosens Sylar—the sneaky ease of his smile and the softened line of his shoulders makes him seem like a different person entirely. It's charming and fucking creepy at the same time, which is probably a part of the charm.

Luke's good though. He's not fucked up yet—he's had lots of practice with college kids from the neighboring town who let him into their lame-ass parties in exchange for Luke providing the (stolen) booze.

Several drinks later, Luke's _totally_ good:

"Remember Rudolph?" Luke asks him, resting his face in one hand and blinking happily across the bar at Sylar.

Sylar's weirded out, but his face breaks into a puff of a laugh and ruins it. "Um, sure."

"The red-nosed reindeer? Shiny nose? If you saw it you'd almost certainly say it glows?"

Sylar sighs. "Yeah, okay, _got it_ , Luke."

"I feel like . . ." And this is truly a groundbreaking, beer-flavored epiphany Luke's having: "We're stuck on the island of misfit toys with that rag doll chick and the square wheels and the jelly shit or whatever, you know what I mean?"

Sylar just looks at him. "No."

"You know, man, you know!" Luke leans in to put his hand on Sylar's shoulder, watches Sylar's disdainful expression and knows on some far off, sober level that he's behaving the wrong way. Which only makes him lean closer, just to get Sylar looking as uncomfortable as possible. "We're broken toys or whatever, elves are drunk off their ass and fucking off instead of making us right, and we're shipped the fuck off to the damn Toys 'R' Us leper colony and we may be the square wheels and the jelly which are pretty weird but we're both on the same fucking island, you know?"

Sylar sifts through all of that, thinks about it. "Damaged goods," he says.

"Ugh, my metaphor was shitloads better . . ." Luke trails off and casts around for his drink, guzzles down the rest and cringes at the burn of it.

Sylar mimics him, and Luke watches his throat working to swallow and the choppy, jostling strands of the hair against his neck.

Luke didn't necessarily _miss_ Sylar—he just keeps reliving that wash of relief when he'd found Luke hitchhiking back to Jersey, remembers the screech of tires and the cloud of dust and the car door flinging telekinetically open with Sylar awaiting inside. He hadn't even said anything, and that had made Luke laugh instead of saying _Thanks_ or some shit before hopping in. Sylar would've been pissed if Luke had acted too grateful, and in a way keeping it silent and secret and understood between them made it feel a little warmer in the pit of Luke's stomach. It's this whole Bonnie and Clyde thing they've got going. It's pretty sweet.

Luke doesn't think before he says, "So who gets to be Clyde?"

Sylar raises his eyebrows, way dramatic. "Uh?" He blinks big eyes and leans closer as though that will help him to understand. Luke's about to laugh but then Sylar's gaze slips down to Luke's mouth and then back and black up into his eyes. "What makes you think we're BBF's?"

"BFF's."

"I really couldn't care less about the terminology."

Luke shrugs. "You keep wandering 'round but you still come back to me. (Still come back to me . . .)"

Sylar quirks an eyebrow, slowly says, "Déjà _vu?_ "

"Oh my fucking God, do you live under a rock or something?"

". . . Kinda, yeah."

"But yeah." There's a beat with staring in it. Luke gets a little rush, feels a little reckless. "We're friends because you keep . . . _keeping_ me, like—"

"We're both misfits," Sylar interrupts, like he's correcting him. He's so close and booze-scented and Luke really bets his clothes are darkly warm from his body—the sheen of sweat on his upper lip and his fast breathing.

Sylar's too close to focus on by now and Luke hopes and hopes until Sylar's kissing him, slow and careful and wet and soft and fuck it, Luke's not in the mood for that so he slides his hand around Sylar's neck and bites his pouty upper lip before deepening the kiss. Barely has time to savor the hot reality of it because Sylar's tongue licks into Luke's mouth and makes Luke's eyes roll back with all that suddenness, the slow sinuous suck of his mouth. Luke's on the verge of moaning like a girl when Sylar pulls back to stare at him.

"Oh shit, shit, sorry," Sylar babbles. "I've never—alcohol is new. I'm not, uh, just forget this ever— _urgnf_."

But Luke's feeling too magnetic, gotta taste Sylar's lips again and twine his fingers in his hair this time. Gets Sylar to groan low and insanely sexy and kisses him harder, harder, forcing Sylar's head back with the force of it for awhile until Sylar's hands still him and they part—loudly wet. The way Sylar's exhale gusts over Luke's moistened mouth makes them both shiver.

Breathily sotto voce, Sylar says: "I just, I didn't know getting drunk meant getting stupid and, and . . . you, uh . . . _shit_ , Luke, why do you look so, just, _so?_ Now?" Sylar's words slur and his fingertips trail down Luke's chest like he isn't sure whether or not he's real. "God, you're . . ."

"Shut up," Luke mumbles, slipping off of his stool and into Sylar until he's got him trapped against the bar, height difference suddenly relevant and Sylar's hands suddenly big and suddenly at Luke's shoulder, hip, small of his back.

Luke starts to overheat, starts to blindly _want_ too much so he turns his head away from the kiss. Sylar tilts Luke's chin back telekinetically and captures his mouth again but Luke makes a noise into it and breaks away. "Car now?" he suggests, licks his lips just to be slutty and Sylar eats it right up, black and white flicker of his eyes.

"Oh." Sylar's so out of it, hypnotized, and Luke's gotta drag him into motion. They stumble over each other and past the two or three other people in the bar, under neon advertisements and shadows and out into the summer night where it's loud with choruses of bugs and it smells thrillingly like life.

The car isn't close enough. It's parked just off the crumbly country highway, snug behind a thatch of deliciously fragrant honeysuckle and thorny stuff. _No hotels, no paper trail,_ Sylar had insisted. But Luke had bitched and moaned and demanded a bathroom, at least, so they made pit stops in suburbia from time to time. It was a fun little piece of tail on the side, and Sylar didn't get anything out of it, but he did let Luke go to town on any unlucky bystanders. 'Cause that's what friends are for.

Luke's just so high on freedom lately—it's in little things like not having to scramble to do homework or rely on his mom for a ride or see the same safe, godforsaken streets day in and day out. Everything he sees now is _new_.

At some point along the way Sylar had taken the lead, and when they get close enough to the car he twists Luke around and backs him up against it, all-encompassing and making Luke's heart race anew. Sylar's mouth trails hotly up Luke's neck while his hands trail up his sides. Luke gasps and Sylar swallows it, slow hard open-mouthed kisses taking center stage. Luke writhes against Sylar's insistent, clutching hands.

"Fuck, you're hot," Sylar gasps.

"Unnnnn, you too . . ."

"No—literally. You're literally hot." Sylar pulls away as if burned and—oh, okay, so he had been burned, but it melts back into his skin almost instantly so whatevs.

And Luke does feel superheated, looks down at his skin where it's starting to glow—Sylar's unbuttoning Luke's shirt now, fingers flicking at all the good spots on the way. Gets this wave of embarrassment. "Hard to control my power sometimes. Instinct just sort of takes over . . ."

"What, an instinct to kill me?"

"If that's what you're into."

"Figures," Sylar sighs. "One of these days I'll fuck someone with a non-lethal ability . . ."

"Huh?"

That's when the car door flings open, shoving them stumblingly together for a hot moment before Sylar manages to drag Luke into the backseat with him. Luke scrambles on top, grinds down into Sylar's lap and moans when Sylar's hands guide his hips to repeat it again and again.

Sylar's mouth latches onto a sweet spot on his neck and Luke's head tips back . . . aaand his skull thunks against the light on the roof of the car, switching it on. Luke mutters _Ow!_ but Sylar just douses the light with his mind and pulls Luke down into a kiss, the really good sideways kind that makes Luke's toes curl.

Black bursts of dizziness are going off behind Luke's tightly shut eyelids, so the riptide of arousal that shoots to his cock is his only indication that Sylar is re-organizing them in the cramped backseat of microscopic vision chick's Mazda— _Zoom zoom!_ Luke had kept announcing whenever they passed a slow-ass truck on the highway until Sylar got fed up and slammed him against the window for a mile or two.

Back in the present, Sylar's got one hand down Luke's pants, half on top of him and half scrunched on the floor. His mouth latches onto skin and stays there, licking and biting over Luke's chest while he makes quick work of the rest of Luke's clothes with his mind. Whenever Luke gets overheated Sylar sighs long-sufferingly and moves on to a less glowy part of Luke's body. Sylar's eyes glint like an animal's in the barely there light, and when they catch in Luke's half-lidded gaze Luke's mouth goes dry.

There's a moment where Sylar's licking the tip of Luke's straining cock perfectly too-delicate—makes Luke make a strangled little sound that sets Sylar in motion. Luke's arms twist over his head with invisible force and a seatbelt snakes out to secure him until all he can do is look up at Sylar in the shadows with his chest heaving, fucking turned on and out of his mind with it.

"Can. Uh. _God_ just touch me, please . . ."

Sylar smirks briefly and complies, big perfect strong rough hand moving teasingly over Luke's cock, just stroking and encircling and not enough because Sylar's an asshole like that. Luke whines and arcs up into it, but Sylar's other hand fastens his hips back down to the seat. Leans close and breathes, "Tell me what you want, Luke," over Luke's panting, parted lips.

" _Fuck_ . . ."

"Yeah? Fuck what? You?" Nips at Luke's bottom lip and sucks it in before pulling out of reach. "Fuck your fucking luscious mouth? Fuck you 'til you're begging to come? You've _got_ to be more specific, Lu—"

"Fuck me _hard_."

Sylar's breath catches. "Yeah, okay." A flick of his fingers to summon—

The little packet of lube smacks Luke in the face. "Ow! What the fuck?"

"I'm still kinda drunk," Sylar mutters, smears the stuff into his palm, holds it out for Luke to warm. "Stop laughing. Now. No—shut _up_."

Luke gets it out of his system. "Okay, okay." Sighs and giggles a bit on the end of it. "So are you gonna— _ah_ okay . . . _ah_ . . ." Luke presses down on Sylar's finger, slender and slick and quickly inside him.

And now Sylar seems determined to prove his mastery of his abilities, because while Luke is concentrating on breathing and relaxing, Sylar reaches out with invisible fingers to stroke _every_ -fucking-where on Luke's cock. The touches press more and more as Sylar works his fingers inside him in the background, gets better and better until Luke's eyelids are flickering and Sylar's kissing him, all tongues and moaning to each other in continuous dialogue.

Sylar breaks the kiss with a rush of breath and cooler air, blinks close and humanly at Luke, uncertain. "I mean, you really, are you sure you wanna—"

"Goddammit, Sylar, I _want_ you to hold me down and fuck me, and— _yeah-right-there_ . . . "

"Slut," Sylar murmurs, fond but mostly back to normal. He scissors his fingers and Luke starts to . . . God, just _want_ him. Frenziedly.

"You know it. _Ah_ , shit, just keep, yeah just keep doing that _yeah_ God Sylar . . ."

"Do you _ever_ shut up?" Sylar beckons and a condom zips up from somewhere, unwraps neatly and Luke would make a crack about Sylar secretly wanting this all along or something but he's beginning to hyperventilate with anticipation, and then he's gotta close his eyes to feel it when Sylar's cock pushes in the first little bit.

"Luke." And Luke's eyes snap open to Sylar, dark dazed and desperate above him, with a tremble in his arm and an unguarded cast to his eyes—they're the softest part of him here amid angular midnight shadows.

Luke wants to touch him, squirms against his restraints and gets only Sylar holding him down unyieldingly in response. He wants to say something—snark, begging, what the fuck ever—but every time his mouth opens to do so it just stays like that and gasps at the hot fullness of Sylar's cock inching into him, the sweaty grip of Sylar's fingers and the feel of the muscles working in Sylar's legs once he's struggling to keep still and let Luke adjust. So considerate, but now Luke wants to tell him to just fucking _do it_ already and unfortunately he's lost his voice to unintelligible vowels, can only keen when Sylar pulls back a little to thrust experimentally.

Sylar takes the hint and hitches one of Luke's legs up higher, fucking into him steadily, finally, _hard_ and hot and oh my God this is really happening and it's way too fucking good—

"Luke?" Sylar says distantly.

" _Harder_ , oh God just _harder_ , yeah— _shit_ —"

Sylar doesn't tell him to shut up— _makes_ him by speeding his thrusts until it needs to be more, yanks Luke's hips up roughly to pull them in on every deep plunge thereafter, slow and hard and hot and right there _right_ fucking there every fucking time, God, shit, it's _so_ fucking—

Sylar wraps a hand (real one) around Luke's cock and brings him over the edge quick, squeezing and milking as Luke continues to come. He holds himself tense and still inside of Luke, straining until his nails dig painfully into Luke's thigh and he comes too, panting against his neck with his hair stuck to Luke's sweaty skin.

Eventually the world stops pulsing and the seatbelts unravel and Luke's free. He becomes slowly, muzzily aware of the immovable hunk of Sylar that's keeping him from sitting up to fix the crick in his neck. Luke pokes him and Sylar grumbles—he can feel him shuddering still, heavy and warm and breathless.

Luke summons enough energy to zap him and it convinces Sylar to push up on his forearms, too disoriented to do much more so Luke sighs and heaves Sylar's limbs around until he's propped against the seat. Finds himself pulled invisibly against him, head placed on Sylar's bony shoulder and thoroughly content to lie there and sweat and breathe slower and slower with him.

But, "I'm _starving_."

"No, you're not," Sylar sighs.

"I _am_." Luke opens his eyes, notices the burn on Sylar's hand that's slow in healing. Something like guilt comes into play: "I burned you the whole time we . . . ?"

Sylar shrugs, which is ineffective in their state of intertwinement. "It's not like it matters."

Luke cracks a grin. "Did it turn you on?"

"Eh. Maybe a little." Sylar's arm goes around Luke's waist, lazily protective and exciting-feeling. "What kind of food do you want?" Sylar mumbles into Luke's hair.

"Tacos," Luke says decisively.

Sylar laughs. "Well. We're _in_ Nebraska . . ."

"Didn't say they had to be good tacos."

"Heh." Sylar makes it so they're even closer, which could pass for snuggling if it were anyone else. "We'll hold up the next rest stop Qdoba, okay?"

"Wait, do you mean, like, actually hold it up or . . . ?"

"Oh, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Luke."

*


End file.
